


Picture Perfect Memories

by MeghanAnna



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:55:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8028631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeghanAnna/pseuds/MeghanAnna
Summary: She missed him. She missed his scent on her pillow, his clothes in her hamper, his shoes by her front door, his extra toothbrush in the holder on her bathroom counter. She missed him in her life.
--
He imagines Clarke in the bar back home, braiding her hair over her shoulder while she gets worked up as she tells her own story. He hears her say his name when they get back to his place—breathless and desperate. He can smell her shampoo and taste the sweat on her skin. He’s somewhere else completely. Or, at least, he wishes he was.





	Picture Perfect Memories

**Author's Note:**

> bff prompt- au based on _Need You Now_ by Lady Antebellum

**SATURDAY, 1:07 AM- CLARKE**

She’d ripped through her apartment for almost twenty minutes before she found the envelope of pictures she was looking for. Now, she sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor with a glass of wine in her hand, surrounded by pictures of Bellamy.

Some were just pictures of him that she had taken when they were alone—quiet moments where his head is in a book, him cooking in her kitchen, or sleeping in his bed. Others were of the two of them—kissing, laughing, cuddling. _Happy_. There were a few of the whole group, but even in those pictures, Bellamy was the focus. Bellamy was always the focus.

She printed them out four months ago because she was going to make a collage with them and since neither of them were exceptionally present on social media, they weren’t anywhere but on her phone or her computer. She wanted some for frames and scrapbooks she’d plan out but never make. She just wanted to look at him whenever she could.

She still did. Even though they’d been broken up for two months and hadn’t spoken in 42 days. _Forty-two days_. It felt like a lifetime since he called her and she begged him not to do it again—not if they weren’t going to move past what ripped them apart in the first place. She was broken without hearing his voice. When he called about a shirt he might have left at her place or to ask if she’d talked to Octavia recently, she shattered completely. And all she could do was look at his face—still the background on her phone at that point—and cry.

And she was crying now, too.

She missed him. She missed his scent on her pillow, his clothes in her hamper, his shoes by her front door, his extra toothbrush in the holder on her bathroom counter. She missed him in her life.

He used to be such a huge part of it—in the year and a half that they dated and the three years before that when they were just friends. For the past forty-two days it was like she was missing a limb. Or her heart.

She tells herself—while she’s holding her wine to her lips with one hand and holding a picture of Bellamy laughing into her camera in the other—that they broke up for a reason. It was _his_ reason and she didn’t necessarily agree with it, but it was still a reason. It’s not like they were fighting over what to watch on TV or where to go to dinner that night.

He broke up with her because he was moving for a new job. It was only two hours away, but he refused to ask her to go with him. He was starting a new position at a different university. He’d be working all day and planning and grading all night. He wouldn’t have the time to be a boyfriend and a professor. And they’ve never lived more than three miles apart in all the time they’ve known each other. Trying to keep a relationship going strong, with two very busy people, two hours apart… that was near impossible.

She knew that. She did. But it didn’t make losing him any easier.

Looking at fifty pictures of his face wasn’t helping either. Neither was the wine running through her, making her sadder and more confident. The phone laying on the floor between her legs was _so_ tempting, too. The picture of her and Bellamy was no longer her phone background—it had been replaced with one of those cheesy pictures of a beach that came with the phone—but it still made her miss him more.

So, Clarke took a long sip of her wine and put it down on the floor. She put down the picture of Bellamy. And she picked up her phone.

She should have deleted his number long ago—forty-two days ago, probably. But she didn’t. She probably never would. She didn’t even need it, though. His was one of three phone numbers she knew by heart. His, her mother’s, and Wells’.

Forty-two days was a long time. Bellamy might not even think about her anymore. He definitely wasn’t sitting in a circle of her pictures, crying into a glass of wine. His thumb wasn’t trembling above her phone number, ready to call her and end the silence between them.

Clarke breathed. In and out. Once, then twice. Her thumb pressed the call button before she could talk herself out of it. Her eyes remained on the images littered around her body while she listened to the phone ringing.

It rang and it rang. It rang until his voicemail picked up. She listened to his voice asking her to leave a name and number—like his phone wouldn’t tell him who it was from, like he was living in the 90s—it made her smile. And then she heard the beep and it made her cry—just a single breath—and she hung up.

The phone fell from her limp hand and she covered her mouth and sobbed.

\--

**SATURDAY, 1:11 AM- BELLAMY**

It was _late_. Much later than Bellamy was used to being out. In the two months since he moved, he hasn’t stayed out past ten. And “out” meant his office, mostly. This was the first time he was out at a bar since his going away party at home.

_Home._ It wasn’t home—not anymore. He didn’t grow up there, just went to college and hung around until he got the job he’s dreamed of his whole life. And he left it. It wasn’t home. But it used to be.

She used to be. Clarke. God, he misses her.

With three whiskeys in him and a fourth on its way, all he can think about is Clarke. She’s all he thinks about usually—when he’s not in class or grading or in meetings. But, with the liquor coursing through him, he _knows_ that Echo is standing there, trying to tell him a story—maybe flirt a little—but he doesn’t see Echo. He doesn’t even hear her.

He imagines Clarke in the bar back home, braiding her hair over her shoulder while she gets worked up as she tells her own story. He hears her say his name when they get back to his place—breathless and desperate. He can smell her shampoo and taste the sweat on her skin. He’s somewhere else completely. Or, at least, he wishes he was.

But it’s not Clarke in front of him, he realizes when his eyes finally focus again. It’s not.

He still doesn’t listen to Echo, though. He takes his drink and shoots it—which is a terrible idea—and walks away without another word. He’s drunk. Everyone can see that. It might have been a dick move, but he needed to get away. He needs to get outside.

The air that hits him is cooler than it was a month ago—much cooler than it was when he first got to town two months ago. It’s supposed to be his favorite time of year, but he hates it.

He loves his job, still loves the beginning of the school year like he did when he was student teaching, but hates his traitorous heart. He hates how much he misses everyone. How much he misses _her_.

It was his idea to break up. And he stands by it. He lives in his classroom and his office. Hell, he’s slept on campus once or twice and it’s only been two months. He knows things will calm down once he gets the hang of everything. He knows Clarke never would have complained if they’d stayed together. But he would have felt like shit because Clarke deserves someone’s full attention. She deserves a whole room of attention. She deserves to be happy and have fun. She wouldn’t be happy or having any fun if she was with him.

And he’d be just as busy if they were long distance. She has a job, too. Granted, it’s not a job she loves or needs, but it keeps her busy. It gives her time to do her art, which keeps her even busier. If they were together and doing the long distance thing, they’d both be miserable. He can handle knowing he’s miserable. It would kill him to know that she was.

And she was miserable—after he broke up with her, after he moved—when he called her for the fifteenth day in a row and she told him not to call her again. He could hear it in her voice. He could hear how much he was hurting her. It’s been over a month, though, and he was sure that she was better. She was always stronger than he was.

Bellamy was _weak_. He couldn’t even stand once he got outside. He had to sit on the sidewalk and let the cool air soothe him. He could feel how much he missed her in his bones. He missed everything about her. And everything about _them_.

They were good together. They made sense. They were a team. And they were _in love_. Real love. Love like Bellamy didn’t even know was possible. He’d always known that he loved her, but being away from her made it all the more obvious. He wasn’t sure that he’d ever feel like this again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

He wanted Clarke. No one else. He knew that the second he met her. He feels it every single day now. It’s Clarke.

_It’s Clarke._

It hits him like a Mack truck and he can’t get his phone out of his pocket fast enough. He needs to call her. He needs to tell her.

And then he sees it. Her name on his phone screen. She called him. She called him _ten minutes ago_ when he couldn’t see the people standing in front of him because he was thinking about her.

He slides to unlock the screen and listens to her voicemail immediately.

Nothing but a sob.

\--

**SATURDAY, 1:15 AM- CLARKE**

 

Clarke’s face down on the floor now. She brushed the pictures aside and finished her wine and then collapsed into a puddle of tears. It’s not that she _expected_ Bellamy to answer a phone call from her after 1 o’clock in the morning. It’s just that she hoped. She hoped to hear his voice.

When her phone rings a few minutes later, she thinks she might be dreaming. But then it rings a second time. And a third. And she has to pick it up before it goes to voicemail.

“Hello!”

\--

**SATURDAY, 1:15 AM- BELLAMY**

Breathless. Bellamy has lost the ability to breathe. And Clarke is breathless on the other end of the line. And watery. She’s still crying.

“Are you okay?” he asks, trying to push himself to stand with his free hand. There’s no response though. Just more tears. “Clarke!”

\--

“I’m fine.” Her voice is weak and she can’t stop crying. And she can’t even bother to be embarrassed because it’s _Bellamy_. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says quickly and he’s slurring a little. Drunk.

\--

Clarke doesn’t say anything for a few seconds and he’s worried again. But then, “You sound like you’re busy. I’m okay.”

She thinks she’s bothering him. Like he wasn’t going to call her himself even without hearing her voicemail.

“I miss you,” he tells her quietly. He runs a hand through his hair and it’s shaking—maybe it’s because he’s cold. Probably because it’s Clarke on the end of the line.

\--

 “You’re drunk,” she reminds him and he sighs in her ear. If he was sober, he would have pulled the phone away from his mouth, at least.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he promises. She smiles to herself. Bellamy after a few drinks always made her smile. He was never sad or mopey. He didn’t get angry or loud. He was the same, loving Bellamy. Just multiplied. So, she does believe him, but…

\--

“I miss you, too,” she tells him and he sighs again—relieved. “But I’ve only had one glass of wine and I called you anyway.”

She’s right. Maybe he wouldn’t have called her if he was sober. Actually, he definitely wouldn’t have because he would have thought that she didn’t want to hear from him, but now… Maybe that’s not true.

“Well, if I had known that I would have called you forty-something days ago,” he tells her and she laughs. That laugh—it kills him that he can’t see it for himself.

\--

“I’m telling you now. And I’ll always miss you.” She doesn’t quite believe the conversation is happening, but since it is, she may as well put it all out there. He may not remember it in the morning, but she will. She’ll regret it if she doesn’t tell him the truth.

“I want this to work.” He sounds so confident. So sure. She almost forgets that he’s been drinking. “I don’t know how to make it work, but I want it to.”

“Then call me tomorrow,” she tells him. “And we’ll figure it out.”

\--

He can call her tomorrow. That’s easy. He’s had to stop himself every single day since the last time. And now he doesn’t have to.

“I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”

“So, I’ll hear from you around noon?” Clarke is laughing in his ear again and he wants her. He _needs_ her like she’s air.

“I’m not that drunk,” he promises. “Or that old. I’ll be up by 10, _at least_.”

“Good, because I’m not going to be able to sleep.”

\--

“Go to sleep, Clarke,” he says softly. It’s almost like he’s there with her. “I’ll call you as soon as I wake up.”

“Goodnight, Bellamy,” she tells him, but she doesn’t want to hang up yet. It’s like Christmas Eve, though—the sooner she gets to sleep, the sooner he’ll call her back. God, she hopes he remembers this conversation. She _needs_ him to remember this conversation.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://bellamyfrecklefaceblake.tumblr.com)!


End file.
